


Now, kiss me with your holy mouth

by hongmunmu



Category: Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening
Genre: Other, Reflection, Short, anderstice, merging of souls
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-14
Updated: 2016-01-14
Packaged: 2018-05-13 20:49:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5716603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hongmunmu/pseuds/hongmunmu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Introspection.</p><p>song for it; The Lord Is Out Of Control, Mogwai. (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7TzRex0YZM8&index=4)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Now, kiss me with your holy mouth

They were constantly shuffling around and apart, mixing, rice and clouded water washing in a pot. It was intimacy of a different kind, and it wasn’t satisfying. There were many facets to what Anders knew to be true of loneliness, and being alone, but this wasn’t one of them. This was something that couldn’t be defined. Their minds were constantly in varying degrees of separation, from conversation-capable distance and division to a meshing, chaotic, screaming tangle of souls not knowing who said and/or thought what, who moved what limb, and it was so, so _difficult._ The human concept of togetherness as Anders knew it came with two bodies and two minds and even in his tightest, dearest moments with Justice, he still found it hard to accept.

At times Justice controlled areas of the body without taking over, and to Anders these feelings should not have come from within. They were external, he swore; ghostly blue hands closing his eyes for him, lifting his hands to undress himself when he was too tired to move. It felt less like movement and more like aid. Like a carer. Like a lover.

Perhaps the truth was that Anders only struggled with such a merging of minds because he had always been a physical person. Healing hands on skin, on the cold stone of a window, sore and red from rope-burn. Stainless steel. Primal magic. Lake Calenhad. Karl Thekla. Anders had never been afraid of the physical world and moving through it, but what he had been afraid of was the opposite, a dark and cramped world with none of the sights and smells and space, and that was called Claustrophobia.

Anders had thought at several points during his life, that he would be better off as a spirit. Not a Fade spirit, mind you – that introduced complications like virtues and sins and the Maker and all strains of violently religious teachings drilled into him since he was a child. The kind of spirit Anders had dreamt of being was simply a Godless wisp, translucent with the texture of gauze – perhaps it would be more accurate to say Anders had dreamt of being a ghost. He just wanted to move freely through the world, to touch and see and feel everything and drift through windows and off cliffs, and just keep drifting on.

The point was that Anders would have taken ghostly blue hands. He would have taken the rotting carcass of Warden Kristoff, armour stuffed with flowers fresh and pressed and potpourri alike to mask the smell. It was hard to love something he couldn’t see or feel or hold. But then, he contemplated, perhaps that was faith.

If so, Anders could have called himself Andrastian.

Justice wasn’t a person, but he was more than a concept. He had thoughts. Feelings. Justice was the closest to the Maker Anders had ever gotten, and in some ways that was ironic; that in becoming an abomination, what the Chantry proclaimed anathema, the antithesis to all that was good and right, Anders had found his religious fruition. But in all his time, Anders had never felt closer to walking on sacred ground than he had sharing the soles of his feet with Justice. Justice who cleansed all it touched. Justice from the aether; who burned with divine fire. Justice who kissed him with a holy rotting mouth. Anders who, with a tongue of blood and feathers, kissed it back.


End file.
